The Ripple Effect
by guppypuppy
Summary: "Hey, you're not gonna do anything stupid tonight, right?" The ripple effect caused by Hannah's suicide on Clay. This is my first fanfic ever and is based off of the Netflix show, not the book. If you have any suggestions, ideas, etc please feel free to review!
1. PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

[CLAY]

Tony was going to drive me home. There was no question about it, especially after everything that happened tonight. We've been driving in silence for what feels like forever. I glance over; he has one arm draped over the steering wheel, the other is resting in his lap. I can't help but avoid his gaze. I can almost feel him turn his head a bit to look at me, as if he needs reassurance. I turn my head away from him in the least obvious way that I can manage. Tony doesn't say anything.

We're both staring straight ahead. Tony has both of our windows rolled down a bit, and the breeze hits my face, almost as if it's trying to wake me up from this horrible nightmare I'm living. Everything outside just looks so…normal: perfect sidewalks, perfect lawns, perfect houses, perfect lives. As if a girl hadn't just killed herself. As if a girl hadn't just killed herself because of me.


	2. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

[TONY]

I turn onto the street where Clay lives, doing my best to look out for any bumps or potholes that could startle him from his thoughts. The thing with Clay is that he can't help but have his emotions written so clearly all over his face: he's going through some shit. There's no question about it.

It's easy for me to hide how I'm feeling; I'm sure I look calm, but inside I'm scared shitless. In a way I had expected Clay to react how he did. There was no way he wouldn't be upset by what Hannah said: the way she blamed him for leaving. The way that she saw things: how she said that she wasn't good enough for Clay, and that she would've ruined him. After listening to his tape, I knew that he would have a hard time recovering. What I wasn't expecting was for him to almost immediately decide to do something about it by getting that close to the edge. That was what really scared me: to see someone like Clay Jensen, who has never had any issue even close to the tapes before in his life, almost make the most permanent choice right in front of my eyes. If he can do something like that, then I really have no idea what he's capable of.

We're getting close to his house. I know I have to break the silence, even if it's painful. I have to ask the question that I know he's been waiting for. I brake quietly outside of his house, and put the car in park. I keep the doors locked.


	3. CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

[CLAY]

From the corner of my eye I can see Tony turn towards me slightly. He's still in a relaxed position, but I can feel some sort of anticipation between us. I can feel his eyes searching my face, like he is trying to read my mind. I think I'm going to throw up.

I turn towards him, glancing into his eyes. I can only keep eye contact for a second. I can just tell he has _that_ look: his eyebrows are raised in a way that makes him look so worried, so concerned. Finally, he breaks the silence.

Quietly, almost as if he's trying not to disturb the stillness around us, he says, "Hey, you're not gonna do anything stupid tonight, right?" He leaves the question hanging in the air, raising one of his eyebrows just a little bit more.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I can't even look at him. It seems like such an easy question to answer; but I can't. I can't answer it. I can't even understand everything that's been running through my head tonight. He's studying me right now; I know it. I have to give him some kind of an answer.

I take off my headphones from around my neck, and while distracting myself by putting them away in my backpack, I reply with a simple:

"No."

I didn't even think about it. I can't give myself the time to think about it. If I can just say it and sound almost okay, then I can go home and think about how I'm really going to handle all of this.

Tony takes his hand off of the wheel, and straightens more in his seat. He turns his body even more to face me. It's like he wants to study all of me; to see my entire body and make his own conclusions. The way that he is pointed as directly towards me as his car will allow gives me absolutely nowhere to hide.

"Promise me?"

I can't. I can't promise Tony anything, and I can't lie to him either. He looks so concerned: I can almost feel how much he cares for me just within the atmosphere of the car.

I zip up my backpack. And pause.

With my hands still holding onto the zippers of my backpack, my eyes not quite focusing on the area in front of me, and my body facing the windshield, I almost inaudibly answer,

"No."


	4. CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

[TONY]

Clay looks at me out of the corner of his eye and rapidly turns his gaze back down to his backpack. He looks like he's going to start crying at any moment.

"I..." He clenches his jaw. "I don't think I can."

Holy shit. I thought that by keeping quiet in the car and rolling the windows down that it would help him to calm down more. Sure, his face made him look upset, but who wouldn't be upset while they're trying to process why a girl blames them for her death?

He wasn't processing it: he was going over all the details. He was probably picking out every single instance where he thinks he's to blame.

Whatever calm exterior I was trying to show before is probably gone now. I need to be strong for him. I have to be forceful so that nothing happens to him. He needs me. Just like Hannah did.

I inhale sharply, preparing myself for what I know is going to happen. I look at him directly in the face.

"Clay, I need you to look at me." I lightly touch his arm. He visibly flinches, but finally turns his face enough to make eye contact.

"Are you telling me that you can't promise not to hurt yourself tonight?" I say with a voice that I hope sounds as strong and cool as I need it to be.

Suddenly he seems almost angry.

"God, Tony, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Obviously, I didn't know anything before any of this crap started happening either," he spits out, "or else those tapes would've never existed!" He is so infuriated that he starts breathing heavily.

I swallow loudly. After a moment's pause, he heatedly tries to open the door.

He pulls the latch rapidly, almost breaking it in the process. Still facing away from me, with his voice raised, he practically yells:

"Tony, what the fuck?!"

Without thinking I unbuckle my seatbelt, reach over across him, and grab his shoulders; pulling him towards me in the process. His anger and desperation are exploding from every inch of his body.

In an eerily quiet voice I question,

"Clay, do you honestly think that after what you _just_ said that I can let you leave?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hey guys, please review and tell me what you think about this chapter: I had so many ideas running through my mind and idk how good it turned out. I might go back and edit it. Are my chapters going too slow? Should I have less detail? Also, if you have any ideas or anything you really want to see happening feel free to tell me! Thank you for reading!


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

[CLAY]

Goddamn it. I need to figure out how to control myself better. I try to slow my breathing and relax my body a little. Tony, on the other hand, looks the tensest I've ever seen him. I notice that he hasn't relaxed his grip on my shoulders.

I look at him straight in the eyes and say, hoping that I sound like I've gotten myself under control,

"I—I'm sorry Tony," I sigh, "I don't know why I said that. Like you said, I'm just going through some shit. I need some time alone to think, that's all."

Tony lets go of my shoulders and sits back in his seat. He looks at me, and then to the window behind me. He doesn't seem like he's really looking at anything though: more like he's so deep in his thoughts that he isn't seeing anything at all.

Before I even have time to react, he puts the car in drive and speeds away from my house; the tires screech on the road. The sudden change pushes me back against my seat, and the wind rips through my hair.

As my house rapidly disappears behind us, I feel my chance to have any sense of control in my life disappear along with it. With one last ditch effort, I plea, "Tony, I promise I'm fine. Seriously, _nothing_ is going to happen. After all of this I just want to be alone, okay? Can you please understand that?"

As I finish pleading with him, he slows the car down enough so that we hopefully aren't breaking the speed limit. What a Clay Jensen thing to think of: obeying the law. But not my own safety. That didn't cross my mind once.

Tony breaks me out of my thoughts.

"The last thing you need right now is to be alone. You need somewhere safe to talk about this. You say you're fine, and you're trying to act like you are, Clay, I can tell," he looks over at me pointedly as he says this, "but Hannah looked fine too. For fucks sake, she even asked me about how to record herselfonto tapes for a _class project_. She was so _fine_ ", he says through gritted teeth, "that I believed her. Days before she killed herself."

He exhales loudly.

"And there is no way in _hell_ that I am going to let that happen again."

He pulls into his driveway and turns off the ignition. "So, now that we both know you aren't actually fine, are you going to be honest with me, or not?"


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

[CLAY]

My heart is beating so fast; Tony's trapped me on the other side of town, and there's no way he's going to leave me alone anytime soon. I have to open up to him; I know he needs me to. But the way he talks is so just so forceful that I feel like I'm a deer caught in the headlights. It almost makes me sick. I have no idea what to say but I settle with,

"Okay."

I doubt he would've taken no for an answer anyways.

He seems satisfied, and gives a quick nod to acknowledge that he heard me. Those worry lines still haven't gone away. God, what am I doing to him?

He turns his head in the direction of his house, and from the side of his face I can see him forming a small, half-hearted smile. "You've never actually been inside of my house, have you?"

I gaze at his house: the garage where he and his dad work on different cars, and motorcycles; the worn-down lawn; the bird feeder that's off to the side, most likely a gift to his mom. It looks the same as it always has, even though everything we've grown up with and everything we've ever known has changed.

I don't have the effort to play along with him. Emotionlessly, I reply back, "I guess not."

He sighs. "I would give you the full tour, but it's pretty late," he chuckles, and his smile widens, "plus, my dad would kick my ass if he knew I just got home. He goes to bed pretty early so he can work the morning shift. He's a simple man," he looks down, then turns to face me, "but hard-working." He sighs while studying my face.

I can't think of anything to respond with. Thankfully, Tony doesn't leave any time for an awkward silence; he turns away from me, and the locks on our doors pop up. He opens his door and gets out, closing the door quietly. I do the same.

"We'll have to sneak through the back door. One of my brothers probably left it unlocked for me. It's not exactly the glamorous entrance you should see on your first time coming in," he says with a small smile, "but it'll have to do."

We walk towards the back of the house, leading me to a ripped screen door. As he holds the screen door open, he tries the handle on the beige door behind it. As it easily opens, he turns back to me, and with a small smile he adds softly, "Can always count on them."

It's so dark inside that I can barely see. "Fuck, sorry", I whisper, as I loudly trip over a pair of shoes. Clumsy: yet another embarrassing synonym for Clay Jensen.

Tony quietly shuts the door behind me. As he walks around me he grabs my arm and starts to lead me towards the basement. I think I remember him telling me that he got it to himself once his oldest brother moved out last year.

As we walk down the stairs, Tony keeps his grip on me, in an attempt to keep me steady. He must think I'm so fragile. Maybe I am.

He turns on his desk light, and I'm a little surprised to see how bare his room seems. The only decorations are a poster of a sports car and a framed photo of his family on his nightstand.

He sits down on his bed, and motions for me to sit next to him.

"You don't have to worry about whispering," he explains, "I doubt anyone can hear us talking all the way down here. Just get comfortable, okay?"

"Yeah." I almost literally facepalm. "Shit, when my mom comes home she's going to freak. When should I tell her I'll be home by?"

Tony looks over at me with a face full of confusion. "Clay, you aren't going home tonight. You're staying here, with me," he emphasizes.

Once again Tony catches me completely off-guard. "What?" I stand up. "That's ridiculous. I can't stay over here tonight, I have—"

"You have what?" He interrupts me. "You're still suspended, remember? Plus, even if you weren't, I would make you take a day off, and _yes_ , probably ruin your perfect record," he smirks a little, then rolls up his sleeves as if to show he means business, "but you need it. You deserve it. And _jesus_ , Clay, have a little faith in me, okay? I'll text your mom right now and explain that we got carried away on that _project_ we've been working on, just _please_ ," he says more forcefully, "sit down."

Begrudgingly I do as he says and stare blankly at his poster while he taps away at his phone. Such a simple room for someone who is full of so many positive emotions. Someone so selfless. Actually, the more I look at his room the more it seems to show Tony's character. The two things he cares about: cars, and his family. A hobby, and the people that mean the most to him in the world. Nothing else matters: he doesn't have anything else superficial around his room. He doesn't need it.

What does that say about the rest of us? The people that are anything but simple, the ones that have millions of posters of celebrities they don't even know; the ones that don't have pictures of people they love, or don't have anyone to love at all? Someone like Skye.

Fuck. Fucking Skye.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

What do you guys think so far? I'm thinking of skipping over the rest of the tapes and focusing more on how Clay's tape and the tapes in general affect him and Tony: I feel like if I went over all of them it would get too boring, and I wouldn't have much to add. How do you guys feel about Tony and Clay's relationship so far? Is there anything I should add? I know some writers like to develop their friendship into something more: please tell me in the reviews if you would want this or not so that I can start making it go more in that direction! Does it seem like this is how they would really interact? I'm trying to keep it as close to their characters as I can! Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	7. CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

[TONY]

I look over at Clay once I finish a quick message to his mom. He is completely lost in his thoughts and looks horrible. There are dark bags under his eyes, and he looks so…vacant.

Before I can stop myself I break him from his thoughts, saying quietly, "What are you thinking about?"

He doesn't even bother to turn his head towards me. "Nothing."

No. He can't do this to me. He needs someone to listen; he has to let someone in. I try to hide the scowl on my face as I forcefully say to him, "No, Clay. We agreed in the car that you would be honest with me," I move closer to him on the bed in an attempt to get his attention, "since we both know you aren't okay. And I'm not expecting you to be." I finish, hoping he realizes that he can trust me, and that he's safe here.

"Skye." He says bluntly.

A little taken aback, but relieved that he's saying something, I ask, "What about her? You mean what she said about Hannah? How suicide is selfish?" He flinches at my last question.

He shakes his head a little. "No, well yes and no. I don't know. Her arms. Hannah's arms. What's even the difference anymore?" He sounds frustrated. But with what, and who? Hannah, Skye, or himself?

"The difference," I say, as my concern grows, "is that Skye does that as a coping mechanism. We know why Hannah…" I trail off.

Wait. "Clay, is there something you're trying to tell me?" Jesus, he still won't look in my direction.

"Which one do you think is better?" It's hard not to notice that he completely avoids my question.

What the fuck? "Neither, Clay," I try to put as much authority in my voice as possible, "one is a horrible coping mechanism that will definitely come back to bite you in the ass. The other one," I sigh, "we know what happens with that one, okay?" I try to keep my voice soft now, but I need him to understand. " _You bleed out_. It's the worst pain you've ever felt in your life. And if you're successful like Hannah, it's the last pain you'll ever feel."

I couldn't even tell if he really understood. He just sits there, empty. Looking for answers to questions that honestly scare the shit out of me. What is he even getting at?

Suddenly Clay stands up. He looks at me with a face full of expectation, asking, "Can I use your bathroom?"

The abruptness halts my thoughts. "Yeah, it's that door right there," I point. It's connected to my room, right next to the closet.

"But," I add as he walks over, "I think you should leave the door open a crack."

As I say that he scoffs. As he's opening the door he turns back, saying, "Tony, come on. You don't actually think—"

I quickly interrupt him, my anger and desperation boiling over. "Clay," I try to keep my voice under control, "just keep the door open." Our eyes lock. A thousand messages seem to be sent in that moment. He sighs loudly, but leaves the door open the least amount possible. Good enough: at least it's unlocked if anything happens.

 _If anything happens._ Jesus, what am I going to do with him? What am I going to do with myself?

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I'm sorry this took so long! Things have been hectic and I've hit a writer's block; I'm not sure where I'm really going with this. Please review and send me any ideas you have for the next few chapters or long term. Thank you for reading!


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

[CLAY]

I look around the bathroom, trying to get Tony's face out of my mind. The way he looked at me just now. We made eye contact: that was a definite mistake. His face makes me want to cry: his eyes, the way they were almost pleading with me. How his eyebrows were raised. I'm starting to realize that that is Tony's worried face. He's been making it almost nonstop the past few days, but especially tonight. There's no way I'll ever get it out of my head.

I don't even have to pee. I've barely eaten or drank at all in the last few hours. I just wanted to go somewhere alone to think: something Tony doesn't seem to understand.

I survey the room, my eyes stopping on the bathtub. Of course he has a bathtub. Wait, actually, who doesn't?

God, Hannah is starting to take over my mind. I can't even go into a normal bathroom without thinking about her. But why? I mean, I couldn't have been in love with her, right? She wasn't the person I thought she was; the girl I thought I knew.

I'm tired of thinking about all of this. About Hannah. About Tony. About the tapes. The guilt. It's taken over my mind; everything I see is somehow related back to what happened.

Fuck. I need to find a way to turn my stupid emotions off before they control me too.

My mind drifts back again to Skye.

"Clay, is everything okay in there?", Tony calls from right outside the door.

Shit. I'm supposed to actually be using his bathroom, not staring at it. "Yeah," I choke out, "I—I got distracted. Everything's fine. I'll be out soon."

My scattered thoughts drown out his response. Skye. She isn't strong enough to do what Hannah did. But what she's doing…she's buying herself time. I've learned about it before: they make all middle schoolers sit through a stupid lecture on addictive behaviors, stuff like drugs, alcohol, eating disorders, and _that_. I can't even bring myself to think the word.

I know it's some kind of emotional release. Something that can help me, buy me more time to think things through instead of being bombarded with all of these horrible emotions all the time. More time to think about what I'm going to do with myself.

I can't just go on with my life after knowing that Hannah died because of me. Skye said that Hannah's suicide was selfish, but I can't think of anything more selfish than moving on as if nothing had ever happened.


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

[TONY]

I hear Clay turn on the faucet to wash his hands. He didn't even flush the toilet; he was almost completely silent the whole time. I have no idea what he was doing in there, but I know he didn't bother to pretend that he was actually using the bathroom.

I hear him turn off the faucet and wipe his hands on the towel. I'm practically in the room now; I was ready to walk right in during those few seconds before he responded. If he had locked the door I probably would've broken it down. I don't care if that would've waken up everyone in the house: I would've had to see him. I would've had to know that he was okay.

But he isn't okay. And he isn't even hiding it from me anymore.

"Can I go to bed now?", he asks with an empty voice, as he opens the door. I won't push him anymore tonight. Plus, he needs his sleep. It'll help him process everything.

"Yeah," I swallow, "but you need something more comfortable to sleep in." He looks down at his jeans and hoodie.

"This isn't too bad", he protests, looking back up at me. "No, trust me." A smile creeps onto my face as I begin looking through my drawers. I hand him a soft white t-shirt and some plaid pajama pants that are a bit too long for me.

As he's undressing I notice that his hands are shaking. I quickly look away and turn back towards my dresser to give him some privacy. I pick out some pajama pants and start changing, hoping to give this more of a guy's locker room feel.

The springs in my bed squeak as he sits down. When I turn around I notice how short the pants are on him: he looks ridiculous. He glances up at me with a small smirk and mutters "Unhelpful yoda."

He looks down again at his ankles, and almost simultaneously we start laughing. The first positive emotion I've seen from him the whole night. "Dios mio," I get out between laughs, "if you don't quit with that shit, Clay!"

"It'll never get old," he laughs back. I sit down next to him as our laughter subsides. "So," I turn towards him, "left side, or right?"

That stops Clay's laughter in its tracks. He looks at me with surprise written all over his face. Before he can respond I add, "I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor. And I'm not letting you get this great mattress all to yourself, _especially_ ," I smile and raise my eyebrows a little, in a way that some guys might interpret as flirting, "after that last comment. But just do me a favor and don't steal all the covers, okay?"

"Okay," he responds, his face full of surprise turning to one that more closely resembled some sort of admiration. He lays down on the right side of the bed, wordlessly answering my question.

I get underneath the covers on the other side of the bed as he lays on top, his feet almost dangling off the edge. He sighs as I turn off the bedside lamp.

We both stare wordlessly at the ceiling for a minute or two. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks pained: fragile.

"Everything's going to be okay, Clay," I add quietly to the silence, "We'll get through this."

His response is short. He replies with a simple and flat-sounding,

"Yeah."

He turns his back towards me, essentially ending our conversation. I close my eyes, hoping that we can both get a decent night's sleep.


	10. CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

[CLAY]

I open my eyes, allowing them to adjust to the dark. I swallow and turn towards Tony a little: his soft snoring reaches my ears. What did I ever do to deserve him?

I sigh and try to sit up as slowly and quietly as possible. His bed springs squeak a little, but Tony's snoring doesn't falter. As I look down I realize I'm still wearing his pajamas with my ankles exposed.

My clothing and shoes are on the floor near the bed: I do my best to quietly change and fold Tony's pajamas. I set them down on my side of the bed, praying that he doesn't wake up. He looks so calm, so cool, just like how he usually does when he's awake. Except now he always has those worry lines; eyes filled with concern. All because of me.

Backpack. Where did I put my backpack? I force my thoughts to focus on my plan. First I'll need to find my backpack.

I see one of the straps poking out from around the corner of Tony's room. I don't remember putting it there; did Tony take it from the car for me? I was so out of it that I have absolutely no idea.

I tiptoe over to it and reach for my phone that's in the front pocket. Three a.m. I must've slept a few hours; honestly I'm lucky I even slept at all.

A few messages from my mom blare on the screen, explaining that she'll be at work early in the morning before I get back home from working with Tony. Some details on what's in the fridge to eat. Even a suggestion that Tony and I finish working on the project tomorrow afternoon at my house, and that she could pick up pizza or something. Yeah, no. That's not going to happen.

As I scroll through my messages I see that Skye sent me a text too: it includes her address, if I 'want to talk' after she gets off work. I feel a sense of relief wash over me; I was planning on going to see her anyways. I don't know why she bothered to put her address: she lives in the same place she always has.

I shrug, and shoot a glance towards Tony as I tiptoe up the stairs. He hasn't moved an inch. I guess I could leave a note or text him something, but what would I even say? 'Hey, thanks for the pajamas, but I've got to go'? No way. It sounds stupid, plus if his phone rings or vibrates then he'll wake up and force me to sit with him.

And he isn't the person I need to talk to right now: Skye is. I close the basement door without shutting it completely while the image of Skye's cards run around in my mind. I tiptoe through Tony's house, panicking slightly when a few of the floorboards creak. I pause, but I don't hear any movement.

The freezing cold air hits my face as I step outside. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I know what I have to do.

I turn towards the direction of Skye's house, even though I know it'll be at least a twenty-minute walk. I start taking in everything around me in an attempt to just stop feeling. God, it's fucking cold. I have my hoodie on over my t-shirt, which is barely enough.

After at least ten minutes of walking underneath street lights, I notice that there's a twenty-four-hour gas station up ahead. This must be the Baker's competition. Are the Bakers open twenty-four hours? I doubt it. I don't think they have any employees besides the family.

As I walk closer I can feel myself start to shake. Is this how Hannah felt? Was she as nervous as I am?

I open the door, and the lights practically burn my eyes. A tiny bell jingles as the door slams shut. The employee and I make eye contact; I nod and start down an aisle. I can feel his eyes boring into me, but try to focus on what I need. Some sugary energy drink. Check. Actually, make that two. I pause by the fridge, picking out two different flavors that sound equally disgusting. Great.

I walk towards the band aids and first aid kits. The pain medication catches my eye. Do I need any of that? No. I shake my head. I won't need any. I grab a box of band aids, and then double back to pick up a pack of gauze. Just in case.

Razor blades.

I need razor blades.

I pick a pack up on my way to the register, as if it's an afterthought. I'm just picking up a few things, nothing special. I stare at the gum packs to get my mind off what I'm doing. Spearmint sounds okay. With tons of sugar.

I put everything on the counter, praying that the employee doesn't notice my hands shaking. If he does, he doesn't say anything. He doesn't even give me a second glance.

"No bag, please," I stop him as he reaches for a plastic bag. I shovel almost everything into my backpack.

"Keep the change," I add, as I hand him a ten-dollar bill. He smiles at me, and I do my best to smile back. As I leave I open one of the energy drinks. I have a quick taste as I reach the door; the bells jingle and it slams shut behind me. The darkness that surrounds me almost distracts me from how disgusting the drink tastes. Ra-ra raspberry. "Of course," I say quietly to myself, grimacing. Ugh.

I down the drink as I walk the last fifteen minutes to Skye's house. Strangely enough, some of the lights are still on in her house. Why is she still up at three in the morning?

I walk up to her house, trying to keep off the grass. I knock on the door; the noise echoes off into the night. Almost immediately, the door opens.

"Clay," she looks down at me, and then meets my eyes,

"I knew you'd be here eventually."


	11. CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

[CLAY]

I scratch my head, searching for something to say. Skye lets out a cold laugh at my hesitance.

"God, I almost forgot how completely," she paused for a second, and cleared her throat, "—awkward you are. Come on in," she ended with a sly smile. She moved to the side, allowing me some room to step inside of her house.

"Don't worry," she let out throatily as she shut the door behind me, "my dad's too busy on a business trip to fucking Florida to give a shit what I do anymore." She put her hand up into the air, wiggling her fingers a little and exposing what she had sitting between her index and middle finger: a joint. Oh god.

Wait. This could be good, right? If she's high, maybe she'll be more open to talking. More honest. And probably way less likely to freak the fuck out about all of this. Perfect.

I'm snapped out of my thoughts by her hand waving frantically in my face. "I _said_ ," she emphasizes dramatically, "do you want to try some? You know, change your goody-two-shoes image for once? It's not so bad, I promise."

"Uh no, but—thanks?" I answer in almost a question. I have no idea how to interact with high Skye. I try to steer the conversation away from her awkward invitation, adding, "I actually came by to talk to you about something. It's kind of important," I finish strongly, hoping she can realize that I'm trying to be serious.

She cocks her head. Wordlessly, she quickly turns around and motions for me to follow her. She takes a few puffs from between her fingers as we're walking; I try to avoid breathing in the smoke before she disposes of the joint all together.

She plops down on the couch in the dimly-lit living room. I sit down next to her, hoping that the low lighting can give me some form of cover; a slight barrier. Especially if this doesn't go well.

"Is this about Hannah? Because if it is," she chips away at her dark nail polish, "I can't help you there. What's done is done." She stretches out her arms, studying her nails.

I clench my jaw, trying not to let her casual manner affect me. "No, not exactly." I stare straight at my lap. "It's about—it's about what you do" I stutter painfully. "Instead of killing yourself," I finish awkwardly, hoping I won't have to explain further.

I can feel her eyes on me. I turn towards her: her face is full of realization. "It's called _cutting_ , Clay," she raises her eyebrows coyly, as if it's all a joke, "and it's really not that hard of a word to say. But what about it?"

I clear my throat, fighting the urge to put my head in my hands. Trying to have some composure I continue, "I was just wondering if it helped you at all. To—to deal with things," I falter, my voice almost dying out.

She reaches for a pack of gum on the table in front of us, and pops a piece in her mouth. "Yeah," she shrugs, then carelessly tosses the pack onto the table. "But that depends on how deep you go. If it's deep," she pops her gum, "it'll hurt more, and you'll feel better a lot longer. And then you won't have to do it again as soon. _Unless_ ," she gives me a pointed look, "you're really fucked up."

I grimace. "Right." I have no idea what to say to that. It feels like there are a million pairs of eyes on me, even though there's obviously only one.

Instead of questioning me, she continues, "But," she tilts her head, "you don't want to do it too deep. You could get nerve damage or some shit." She chews loudly.

" _Or_ ," she adds, with a mischievous look on her face, "you could cut a little too deep, and end up just like her."

I feel myself freeze up. She's high: that has to be the reason why she's so forthcoming. She would never say anything like that to me normally, I mean, she has _some_ common sense. Right?

I'm frozen in my seat, mulling over everything she's just said. I'm trying to pick out the pieces that make sense; trying not to relate it back to Hannah, or say anything to Skye that I might regret.

Deep but not too deep. Deep but not too deep.

Before I can react, she grabs my arm. My reaction time is slowed: hers seems like it's heightened. It makes no sense at all. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

She pushes the sleeve on my hoodie up, and asks quietly, "Is that what you want to do Clay? End up like her?" She brings her eyes up to meet mine; it feels as if she's looking right through me, reading my thoughts.

Fuck. I need to get out of here.

I tear my arm out of her grasp, and stand up quickly. Too quickly. I falter a little, feeling light headed. I push my sleeve back down as I make my way towards her door. Skye follows me, pleading,

"Wait, Clay, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry, I really am. I've just, you know, smoked too much. But you came here to talk, and I want to talk, I—"

I cut off her rambling, turning my head back towards her. "Thanks for your _hospitality_ , Skye," I spit out, almost biting my tongue in the process, "but I think I should go." She stands helplessly in her doorway, possibly unable to physically follow me any further.

I want to make my words sting like hers did, even if it's just a little. As I'm walking down her driveway, I yell back, "Oh, and Skye? Quit smoking. It's disgusting." I exclaim with as much force and repulsion as I can manage. I don't even bother to turn around to see her reaction. I just keep walking, towards where, I don't know. I let my feet lead me, turning the thought over and over again in my mind:

Deep but not too deep. Deep but not too deep.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

What do you guys think? Please let me know how you feel about the overall plot idea that I put in the reviews yesterday (guppypuppy). Feel free to send any other ideas, characters you want to see, scenes that you think would make sense, etc. Thank you for reading!


	12. CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

[TONY]

The loud wheezing sound coming from my phone rips me from my sleep. It's my school alarm: set with the appropriately titled 'Old Car Horn' sound. I groan, picturing the day ahead of me, the faces in the hall.

Wait. What am I thinking? I'm not going to school today; Clay's still suspended.

My alarm continues, blaring out that annoying wheeze at a rhythmic pace.

Clay. Fuck. I probably just woke him up. That's the last thing he needs: to wake up at seven in the fucking morning on a day when he isn't even going to school.

I reach over and shut the alarm off as quickly and quietly as possible. I start to turn to my other side, forgetting that I have my phone still in my hand. My fast movement causes my charger to be ripped from the outlet. Fuck.

I turn my head towards Clay's side of the bed, my mouth ready to inaudibly slip an apology.

"No," I hear myself saying involuntarily, taking in the sight of the empty half of my bed. The folded pajamas. "No, no, no." I can feel my eyes widening as I shoot up in bed.

This isn't happening.

He wouldn't do this.

He _couldn't_ do this.

I let my body take control as my mind races with all of the possibilities. Clay in his bathtub, bleeding to death. Clay jumping off of the cliff. Clay taking a shitload of painkillers.

My eyes run over the bed; the nightstand; the floor. No sign of a note, no sign of Clay at all. I pick up the folded stack of pajamas, praying that he left something, _anything_ , hidden and folded inside, or underneath.

Nothing.

Thoughts race through my head as I hastily put on the first pair of shoes I can find. I grab my head with both hands, trying to force myself to focus and steady my breathing.

Think. Think.

Shoes. Phone. Wallet. Keys.

Before I can process what I'm doing, I sprint upstairs and practically leap towards the door. The sunlight hits my eyes, almost blinding me as I run towards my car.

All of my movements become a fast blur of memorized habits. I turn on the ignition and hit the gas pedal: the tires screech on the road as I race against an invisible clock.

No, not a clock. An hourglass.

An hourglass full of the sand of Clay's life.

The sand that's now draining away.

What if he's in pain right now, struggling to hold on? What if it's already happened?

 _What if he's already gone?_

No. There's no way in hell that all of this can happen again. I'll get there in time.

I have to.

I pull up to Clay's house, relieved that I could make it there while being so distracted. I practically jump out of my car. I notice, with fear, that there are no cars in the driveway. His parents aren't home.

I sprint across his lawn, mindlessly trampling on some flowers.

"Clay, please open the door. Clay, it's Tony," I helplessly shout, as I bang mercilessly on the front door.

No answer.

I rip my hands through my hair and take a step back as I try to decide the best way to break it down. I inhale sharply, studying the door as quickly as I possibly can. I brace myself to launch towards it with my entire body weight.

My phone rings.

With my concentration broken, I stare powerlessly at the door, praying that I won't be wasting precious time.

"Please be him. Please be him," I whisper to myself as I rapidly tear my phone from my back pocket.

It is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hey guys, I'm sorry this update took so long! I have a lot going on right now with online classes and visitors for my birthday (woo!) and I've been really debating on what I want to happen in this story and what direction I want to take it in. I hope this chapter measures up to all of the rest! Once again, thank you for reading and taking the time to review!


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